


But That Was In Another Country

by athena_crikey



Series: Songbird [8]
Category: Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Drama, Gen, Mystery, Supernaturally Attractive, allusions to past rape, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 17:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13956435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Songbirds retain their beauty and grace throughout their lives, and are capable of sating even the most strenuous or exacting sexual appetites with ease. To be able to grant their unique gifts to humans would be to have the golden touch.





	1. Past Possessions

“Thou hast committed” –  
“Fornication; but that was in another country;  
And besides, the wench is dead”

Christopher Marlowe – _The Jew of Malta_

 

“A bit grim, this, isn’t it sir?”

The small office is resonating with the sound of a cello scraping out a deep, melancholy tune backed by a morose, brooding orchestra. The volume on the radio is turned up so loudly the poorly-fitted glass in the doorframe is beginning to reverberate; it’s only a matter of time before one of their office neighbours starts pounding on the wall. 

Morse, tipped back in his chair with his heels resting on the radiator and his arms crossed behind his head, looks up at his sergeant.

“‘This’ is Elgar, Lewis,” he says, with some affront. 

“Right, sir,” replies Lewis, dubiously. At that moment, thankfully, the phone rings. Lewis puts up one hand to block out the radio and try to focus on the voice on the other end of the line.

It’s May in Oxford, the nick not yet the sweatbox it will become in the summer. Outside the world is full of light and colour; trees green and flowers blooming, birds singing, children playing. Inside Thames Valley Police Station murders, assaults and thefts continue to trickle in, just as they always have and always will.

The call’s come through from dispatch. Lewis listens, nods, and affirms the request, then puts down the receiver. “Dead body found in a research lab, sir. Some sort of scientist, from the sounds of it. Sir Thomas Winchester.”

“Winchester,” says Morse, lifting his legs down from the radiator and sitting up. He reaches out and snaps off the radio, an unusual show of interest for the chief inspector.

“Yes, sir. Did you know him?”

“I knew of him.” Morse stands, picking his jacket up off the back of his chair and pulling it on. “He was a researcher, as you say. One of the foremost in his field.” He heads towards the door, Lewis rising and pocketing his notebook before following.

“Which was?” he asks, curious. 

Morse turns to him at the door, face expressionless. “Songbird physiology.”

  
***

The body is in the Sherrington building in the centre of Oxford. It’s an imposing brick-faced behemoth with a long centre wing letting out into perpendicular wings on either end. The windows are large and industrial, the double door surrounded by a concrete lintel; metal letters nailed to the concrete spell out PHYSIOLOGY. To one side, construction is underway to add on an addition to the building, the car park full of heavy equipment.

“The pace of change, Lewis,” says Morse, eyeing the diggers as they leave the Jag, safely parked at the opposite side of the building. “Funding pours into the sciences, while the humanities starve.”

“Well, they’ve a lot more to discover, haven’t they, sir? All these new drugs and particles and theorems and what-have-you. Philosophy and classics are mostly dried up, in comparison.”

Morse turns and looks at him. In the bright sunlight his eyes are very blue, holding a hint of allure. “If you wish to get ahead with the scientific community, that is exactly the kind of thinking you need expound. If you wish to get on with your immediate superior, however, I advise you to choose your words more carefully.”

Lewis winces. “Sorry, sir.”

Together they enter the building, passing through the hardwood-floored foyer and getting a nod from the WPC stationed there. A security guard sitting behind a desk looks up; at a glance from the WPC he waves them through. “Second floor, far end of the hall on the right.”

They take the lift to the second floor; looking down the hall the room they’re there for is obvious; it’s the one with the PC outside. 

As they walk down the long corridor Lewis sees that it’s lined with glass windows looking into laboratories on both sides, the centres of the long rooms filled with tables and the space around the edges taken up with electronic equipment and storage units. White-coated men and women are working in them; some look up as the two coppers pass by.

The room the PC indicates is a smaller office in the corner of the building; it has two sets of windows looking out, linoleum flooring, and metal filing cabinets along the walls. There’s a computer on the desk; a new model with a facsimile machine beside it. _Pots of funding indeed_ , thinks Lewis.

Kneeling behind the desk is Max DeBryn. The pathologist looks up as they edge around the desk, his expression pleasant. “Good to see you,” he says, nodding and then looking down to make a note in his book.

On the carpet before DeBryn is the corpse, lying slumped on its side next to the desk’s chair. Sir Thomas was a man in his 60s, dark hair shot through with grey, heavy face set in deep wrinkles. He’s wearing a lab coat over a suit, and has a pass card clipped to its lapel. Not a handsome man, but one with a force of character. 

“Max?” asks Morse, leaning up against the desk and glancing down before looking out the windows beyond. Lewis, used to his boss’s distaste of corpses, makes a closer examination of the deceased. Somehow, despite never appearing to pay attention, Morse never seems to miss the details – and expects the same of his sergeant. 

“Death appears to have been instantaneous. No signs of violence on the corpse, but I did find this.” The doctor lifts up an empty syringe.

“Poisoned? Or a user?”

“I doubt the latter. There are no signs of regular injection sites; no stash in his desk or on his person either, come to speak of it.”

Morse frowns. “What was it then?”

“Something very fast acting. There are any number of drugs it could have been, in sufficient dosage. It will need to wait for the full autopsy. I’ll take this away with me to test as well,” DeBryn adds, putting the syringe carefully on the desk.

“We’ll need fingerprints off it, sir,” says Lewis deferentially. Max looks up at him through his hornrims, snorting.

“Of course you will, sergeant. When have the scientists ever had one-up on law enforcement?”

“Oh, Lewis is very pro-science,” drawls Morse, crossing his legs at the ankles and glancing at his sergeant. Lewis gives him a pained look.

DeBryn nods. “Glad to hear it. Shows a proper inclination in a young lad; we can’t all be idlers and dreamers, Morse,” he says, with mock-severity. His twinkling eyes belay his tone. 

“I don’t recall ever setting up as a dreamer,” replies Morse.

“Just an idler then?”

Morse gives him a dry smile. It fades as he turns back to the corpse, nodding towards it. “Time of death?”

DeBryn looks down as well, mouth tightening in thought. “Winchester was found by a colleague 45 minutes ago. He spoke with his staff at their usual morning meeting today, which ended at 10. That gives a window of two hours. The medical evidence supports that.”

“A two hour window? Nothing more definite?” presses Morse. 

“Not until the autopsy. Maybe not even then.” DeBryn stands, smoothing down his shirt front. “If you will excuse me, I’ve still time for a late lunch.” The pathologist picks up the syringe and steps out past the two detectives, disappearing out the door.

Morse looks around the office, eyes flashing over the windows letting in abundant midday sun, the framed diplomas and certificates on the walls, the bookshelf full of books and papers, the filing cabinets. Lewis follows his gaze, and sees nothing unusual in any of it. Perfectly ordinary trappings for a scientific researcher. His own gaze lands on the computer. 

“We should get someone down here to take a look at the computer, sir,” says Lewis, a little wistfully. He’d dearly love to do it himself, but that’s not a sergeant’s job. 

“Time enough for that when we’ve found out a bit more,” replies Morse. “Fagan,” he calls, raising his voice sharply. The PC from outside the door steps in.

“Sir?”

“Who found the body?”

“Trevor Dix, sir. One of the doctor’s students. He’s waiting in the lab, along with the rest of the doctor’s staff.”

“Good, we’ll speak to them. Fagan, you dig up some additional information on our dead scientist. Friends, family, residences – the usual.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And get someone down to the pathology lab to fingerprint the syringe.”

  
***

Winchester’s lab is the one adjacent to his office. There’s a card lock on the door, its light an ominous red. When Morse taps on the glass, the researchers – three men and a woman – are at work at their benches, or typing into a computer. One of the men comes over to let them in. “You’re the police?” he asks.

“We are,” replies Morse. “Can we speak here?” he motions to the lab. The man nods and steps back to let them in.

“Just don’t touch anything.”

The other three scientists gather around, forming a semi-circle around the detectives. “I’m DS Lewis; this is Chief Inspector Morse. I’d like to get your names and your roles, if I could,” says Lewis, flipping open his notebook. 

“Dr Jonas Little, chief researcher under Sir Thomas,” says the man who met them at the door; he’s some ten years younger than Thomas, short and plump and sporting a violently mauve bowtie. 

Lewis looks to the woman beside him, petite with long brown hair pulled back and a tart expression; she answers promptly. “Dr Cathy Clarkson, researcher under Sir Thomas.” 

“Neville Austin, research assistant,” says the next man along, much younger with long lanky hair and a hint of anxiety hidden behind an awkward smile. 

“Trevor Dix, research assistant,” introduces the final man, also young but much more put together than Austin, with a charming smile and an easy manner. 

“Neville and Trevor are – were – Sir Thomas’ students,” explains Dr Clarkson in a no-nonsense tone. 

“You all worked closely with Sir Thomas?” asks Lewis. 

“He ran the lab – as well as several other ventures. He set the research agenda and arranged funding. He also took it upon himself to secure research subjects,” answers Little. “We met daily to check in and weekly to report overall progress, but otherwise we didn’t see that much of him.” 

“Research subjects,” says Lewis. “Meaning…?”

“Our work revolves around the chemical properties of songbirds – how they differ from humans, and what we might learn from that. Our subjects are songbirds – volunteers, who are financially remunerated for their time,” replies Clarkson. 

Lewis feels his neck freeze abruptly with the sudden imperative not to look at Morse, not to see how the chief inspector – the _songbird_ – has reacted, lest he give away Morse’s identity.

“What is it you hope to learn?” he asks, aware that Morse has gone very quiet and striving to fill the void. 

“The possibilities are numerous. Songbirds retain heightened physical fitness as they age, they also possess increased stamina and resistance to injury. There are any number of traits that could benefit mankind,” answers Little, enthusiastically. 

“Sounds very chimeric,” comments Morse dryly, speaking for the first time.

“Interbreeding is of course impossible,” cuts in Clarkson, “but there are any number of similarities in our biochemical structures – it’s perfectly plausible to replicate aspects of songbird physiology in humans.”

Lewis can see where the attraction would lie. Songbirds retain their beauty and grace throughout their lives, and are capable of sating even the most strenuous or exacting sexual appetites with ease. To be able to grant their unique gifts to humans would be to have the golden touch. 

It’s ironic that he’s here with a guv’nor who has spent most of his life forcibly repressing those gifts. 

“A human songbird?” Lewis feels his eyebrows rising.

“A human temporarily possessed of songbird traits,” corrects Clarkson. “But we’re not here to talk about our research.”

“Quite right, madam,” breaks in Morse, with a fleeting smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We understand the four of you met with Sir Thomas this morning. What time was that?”

“Half nine to ten,” says Dix, the research student, promptly. “We met every morning at that time.”

“And Sir Thomas seemed his usual self, did he?” asks Lewis. The others look at each other and give a general shrugged assent. 

“Had he been having any troubles lately? Perhaps with his research, or the University, or at home?” suggests Lewis.

Little gives a cough. “Sir Thomas had a combative personality; he was a very forceful man. It’s what made him such a good breadwinner for this programme; wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. If he did have any difficulties, he wouldn’t have taken them lying down. But I can’t say I noticed anything unusual about him lately.”

Morse looks around the little circle of researchers. “And the rest of you? Anything unusual?”

They all shake their heads. Lewis makes a note. “Who was the last to see him?” asks Morse. 

“We all were,” replies Clarkson. “He left here at 10:00 and went into his office. None of us saw him after that.” They all nod in agreement. 

“And anyone wanting to get into his office would have had to walk by here?” asks Lewis, pointing at the line of glass windows looking into the hallway. They’re set about a yard up from the floor, and run the length of the lab wall. 

Dix, the student, shakes his head. “No; there’s a stairwell door opposite Sir Thomas’ office. Someone could have come up through it without our seeing them. His office just has a regular key lock; no need for a pass card.” Dix flicks the card attached to his lapel. 

“These research subjects of yours,” says Morse suddenly; Lewis feels his gaze pulling to the chief inspector. Morse is standing with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders low, for all the world nothing but a middle-aged copper on an assignment he doesn’t much care for. “Is one of them Annalisa Wray?”

The scientists show surprise at the question, but several of them nod. 

“And that didn’t strike you as a violation of ethics?” probes Morse. 

The atmosphere in the room darkens, a kind of thick sullenness leeching into the air. Lewis looks to Morse, but sees no hint of clarity from that quarter.

“She gave her informed consent,” replies Little, at last. “As I said, one way or another, Sir Thomas got what he wanted.”

“I see,” replies Morse. “That will be all for now. Leave your contact information with the constable at the door; we may need to speak with you again.”

Morse looks to Lewis, and the two of them walk out together. In the hall Fagan catches them, handing Lewis a folded piece of paper. “Sir Thomas’ address,” he says. “His wife – Lady Veronica – is there now. She’s been visited by a PC already, sir.”

“Good. Get the contact information for this lot, if you haven’t already.” Morse thumbs over his shoulder, indicating the researchers in the lab. 

“Yes, sir.”

They turn and head for the lift; when they’re nearly there a voice from behind catches them. “Inspector?”

Lewis stops and glances back; Neville Austin, the nervous young student who didn’t speak, is standing in the hallway behind them. They pause by the lift and he jogs over. 

“Mr Austin, isn’t it?” asks Morse. 

“That’s right. It’s – it’s about Sir Thomas,” he says, rubbing his fingers together and shifting his weight awkwardly. 

“Go on,” says Morse, when he doesn’t speak.

“Well – I thought you should know – that is – I went to his office this morning. Just after 10:00. I had some questions…” he fades out. Morse and Lewis watch silently; sometimes silence is the best way to winkle a statement from a nervous witness; in this case, it does the job for them. “Questions about our research. About the ethics of it. His notes… I was concerned.”

“What about, Mr Austin?” asks Lewis.

“It doesn’t matter. I never spoke to him. What I came to tell you was that when I went to his office, his wife was there. I could hear them arguing through the door. She said she wanted a divorce. Shouted it, actually.” He pulls at the corner of his jaw with his thumb. “I didn’t tell the others; it was personal. But I thought you should know.”

“Is there anything else you’ve left out?” asks Morse. Austin turns wide, blinking eyes at him, and shakes his head. “Alright then. Mind you give your information to the PC.”

Austin scurries off down the hallway, and Lewis presses the call button for the lift. It arrives almost immediately.

They step in together, Lewis thumbing the button for the ground floor. “Do you believe he was telling the truth, sir?”

“Oh, I think so. Why make up something so easily verified?”

“One more thing, sir?”

Morse glances at him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Who’s Annalisa Wray? Why would her working with them be a violation of ethics?”

“Because, Lewis,” answers Morse, as the doors open and they step out into the foyer bright with midday sun, “Annalisa Wray used to belong to Sir Thomas. She was his songbird.”


	2. The Women in His Life

By the time Lewis has processed the implications of Morse`s statement, the chief inspector is striding across the car park, well on his way to the Jag. Lewis has to jog after him to catch him up, tie escaping from the confines of his jacket and flapping free.

“Why would she do it? Choose to work for someone – to be _experimented on_ – by someone who had exploited her?” asks Lewis as he catches up, pulling up to a stop on the passenger side of the Jag. 

Morse looks at him over the car’s roof, eyes sharp and critical. 

“Songbirds weren’t raised to believe it was exploitation; they – we were raised to believe it was necessary. That we owed our very lives to our keepers, that we lived with them in a perfect symbiosis. Not many of us knew otherwise until recently, and by then…” Morse shrugs. “The heart is a strange thing, Lewis. It sometimes accepts what the mind can’t. Not all songbirds broke their bonds with their keepers when they gained their freedom. Many remained friendly, some more than that, especially when strong personalities were involved – and we know that of Sir Thomas. All in all it’s hardly surprising that she fell in with his wishes.”

“But that she was allowed to,” begins Lewis; Morse slides the key into the lock and turns it.

“That,” says the chief inspector, “is another matter entirely – one the University need answer for.”

They get in, Morse turning the key in the ignition; the Jaguar roars to life. 

Lewis looks over to his guv’nor, studying his white-haired profile, the sharp cut of his jaw. “What did you think, sir?”

“What about, Lewis?” asks Morse, with a trace of his usual short temper. 

“Being exploited. You’ve never talked about it – the years before the law was overturned.”

“My captivity was in name only – kept by DI Thursday, and McNutt after him, to keep me off the market,” says Morse, dismissively. “I was Thames Valley’s property, which given the hours most of us worked back then didn’t make much of a difference between me and the rest of CID.”

“Then you never…?”

Morse glances at him; for a moment his blue eyes shine with a bright internal fire, his plain face growing handsomer in the spring sun. “What I did or didn’t isn’t at issue,” he says, crossly. “Nor is Annalisa Wray, for that matter. We’re going to see Lady Veronica, if you ever produce her address. I’ll deal with Miss Wray myself.”

“But sir,” protests Lewis. 

“If you don’t make a nuisance of yourself, I’ll consider bringing you along,” replies Morse, as though speaking to a naughty child. “Now, the address?”

  
***

The house on the outskirts of Oxford is large and sprawling, made primarily of limestone and designed with something of a French chateau about it. There’s a turret on one corner, and a long stream with a stone bridge over it to grant access to the front door. It sits on several acres of land which lie fallow, green fields full of cornflowers.

“Sir Thomas was knighted a few years ago, but he came from money,” says Morse as they drive over the bridge and pull up outside the house. There’s a silver MG out front, a 1960s racing model; Morse gives it a long look as they park beside it. 

“A bit flash, isn’t it, sir?” asks Lewis, also looking at the motor.

“A bit,” replies Morse drily, getting out.

The front door is a double door made out of heavy wood with iron knockers set in it; Lewis knocks and hears the sound reverberating in the house. 

It’s a minute before the door is opened; when it finally pulls inward it reveals a woman in her mid-50s with elaborately set bleached-blonde hair and perfectly applied make-up. She’s wearing what looks like an expensive frock in jade green, and high heels. 

She’s also drunk. It’s something about the way she stands that sets Lewis off, the way she leans against the door and looks at them with suspicious eyes. “Who are you?”

“Chief Inspector Morse and Sergeant Lewis, ma’am,” replies Morse. “Can we come in?”

“I’ve already heard about Thomas.”

“We’re here to ask some questions,” says Morse. 

Lady Veronica considers for a moment, then gives a careless wave. “Hell, what does it matter? Come in if you want.” She turns and strides away, leaving them to follow.

She leads them down a corridor and into a starkly decorated den; it has a heavy masculine feel to it, large imposing furniture and dark paintings, an overlarge stone mantle-piece over a yawning fireplace. Lady Veronica goes straight to a drinks cabinet and pours herself a scotch. “Can I get you something?” she asks, turning with the tumbler in hand. They decline – never a sure bet with Morse – and take seats on opposite ends of a sofa. Lady Veronica pours herself into an armchair. 

“My condolences,” begins Morse with some formality. Lady Veronica waves again, head tilted back and eyes skyward.

“Thomas’ death will be a loss to the scientific community. Not to me.” 

“Why is that?” asks Morse. 

Lady Veronica tilts her head downwards, staring straight at Morse. “There was no love lost between us, Inspector. You’ll find that out for yourselves soon enough, gossip in this town being what it is. Thomas and I had great expectations of each other, to begin with. Then we found out that I couldn’t give him children. Rather than divorce, he bought that bitch and moved her in here, under the same roof with his wife, and took her to bed with him whenever he pleased. A grand house and money to spend was hardly compensation – even the title lost its sheen quickly – but it was something. And then the laws changed and she was set free, and it seemed I had won; she was sent packing and I had it all to myself again.”

“And then Sir Thomas started to work with her,” says Morse gently. Her face becomes harshly lined, lips pursing. 

“He didn’t tell me – can you believe that? I found out eventually. And I decided I had had enough. I had put up with far more than any woman should.”

Morse nods, crossing one leg over the other. “So you asked for a divorce.”

“I _demanded_ one,” corrects Lady Veronica with a sudden snap, the scotch in her tumbler sloshing against the side in an amber wave. 

“When was this?”

“This morning. I found out about _her_ yesterday, and Thomas didn’t come home until late, as usual; by then I wasn’t in the mood for a fight. Besides, there was something… _satisfying_ in humiliating him down in his own space. The way I had been, for all those years.” She knocks back the rest of the scotch, fingers clawed around the tumbler. 

“Could you tell me what time you saw him?” asks Morse.

Lady Veronica throws her head back in thought, eyes skimming the ceiling. “I arrived just after ten. I was only there for ten minutes or so. We didn’t have much to say to each other – not much that was civil, at least. When he began to try to brow-beat me into backing down, I left.”

Morse leans forward slightly, eyes sharp. “So he was still alive when you left.”

“Of course. Only a fool would have killed him in a building full of security, in an office beside a room full of his pet researchers. And I’m no fool.”

“You’re very confident,” says Morse.

Lady Veronica taps her fingers against the empty scotch glass. “I’ve lived with Thomas for thirty years. It rubs off on you.”

“Did Sir Thomas have any enemies?” asks Lewis, speaking for the first time. Lady Veronica turns a lazy gaze on him. 

“Practically everyone he’s ever met, I should think. But if you mean those with a motive for murder, I should look at Guillaume LeBlanc. He’s Thomas’ rival – both intellectually and scientifically. Unlike Thomas, he wasn’t born into money, so he’s had a rough go of it. Researching takes money, and Thomas knew who to rub shoulders with to get the grants he wanted – not that he needed them; he could have financed his research himself. Guillaume resented that immensely. Two boys and their toys, always at each other’s throats; really, it was tiresome.”

“Is Dr LeBlanc in town?” 

“I believe so. Thomas mentioned seeing him. Besides Guillaume…”

“Yes?” asks Morse.

Lady Veronica looks to him, eyes flashing. “You just take yourselves down to Cowley and visit her.”

Lewis frowns. “Why would Miss Gray wish to harm Sir Thomas? She’s free now.”

“She believes she stands to inherit a good deal from his will – I’ll contest that, of course. She got more than she needed – more than she _deserved_ – out of the state when she was turned free. She’s an ungrateful little bitch; always has been. She’s always claimed to love Thomas – as though that were her right – but it’s my opinion that she’s nothing but a dirty liar. She’s wanted to get her claws into him for years. You look into her.”

“Thank you for your time, Lady Veronica,” says Morse, rising. Lewis follows suit. Lady Veronica waves vaguely, frowning.

“You can see yourselves out.”

They leave in silence, Lewis closing the heavy door behind them. 

“Phew,” he says, shoes crunching over the gravel drive in front of the house. “Didn’t shy away from her opinions, did she?”

“Hell hath no greater fury, Lewis.”

“She could easily have done it,” says Lewis as they get into the car; the interior is warm from the May sunshine pouring in. Morse starts the engine but lets it idle for a moment, his hands resting on the wheel. 

“She was far franker than she needed to have been.”

“She _was_ a bit tipsy, sir,” reminds Lewis. Morse frowns at him. 

“Not drunk enough to give away much more than she meant to,” replies the chief inspector. “Honesty might have been a wise tack to take; she’s right enough about the gossip in this town.”

“News to me that we’ve sources in high society.”

Morse backed out of the drive, mouth bleak. “That’s why I’m a chief inspector and you’re a sergeant, Lewis,” he answers, wryly.

  
***

They drive to Cowley, twisting through the streets filled with brick buildings and factories, until they come to a quiet corner with a long row of tall tenement houses. Morse parks at the end of the row and gets out; Lewis follows suit.

There’s a pair of earthenware pots filled with colourful flowers sitting on either side of the porch; the window in the cobalt blue door is of abstract stained glass in hues of gold and brass. Morse rings the bell and they wait in silence, Lewis feeling his curiosity growing as the seconds tick by until at last the door swings open.

Objectively, Lewis sees that the woman who opens the door is in her late 30s or early 40s, with a thick braid of chestnut-brown hair and piercing green eyes. 

What he really notices, though, is the brightness she shines with. Her skin is the colour of honey, with a uniform smoothness of tone; Lewis imagines it would be silken under his fingers. Her lips are shell-pink, slightly puckered and with a sheen that suggests she just passed her tongue over them. Lewis feels himself getting hot under his collar. 

“Annalisa,” says Morse, quietly. She looks from him to Lewis, and back again. The movement of her head is quick and bird-like, full of grace, of beauty.

 _So this is a songbird_ , thinks Lewis. And then has to pause, because he’s standing right next to one – has been working alongside him for months. And yet in all that time, he’s only once really seen what Morse is. It’s not that it’s easy to forget; it’s easy to discount it. 

“Is this an official visit?”

Morse nods. “I’m afraid so. It’s about Sir Thomas. I think we should come in.”

She steps back and lets them in, face suddenly drained of colour. 

Her house is much smaller and more compact than Sir Thomas’, but Lewis finds it infinitely more comfortable. They walk down the hall past the kitchen, a study and a powder room to a sitting room at the back of the house overlooking a small green garden. Each room is pleasantly decorated with warm paint tones that are picked up in the furniture. The sitting room is primrose yellow, the two sofas dove grey with yellow pillows. There’s a row of delicate Grecian sculptures on the mantle, and a mishmash of small colourful paintings on the walls. 

Lewis knows from Val’s own efforts at home decorating that a house that feels this perfectly put together must have cost a fortune. 

Annalisa Wray stands with her back to the large windows overlooking the garden, her arms crossed over her chest. “What about Thomas?” she asks, nervousness in her voice. Lewis is trying hard not to stare, but it’s not easy. He can hardly tear his eyes away. He stands awkwardly beside Morse, wishing for his superior’s composure. 

“I’m sorry, Annalisa. He’s dead. He was found dead earlier today, in his office.”

For an instant she stares, her eyes widening, her throat moving as she swallows. Lewis sees shock, and then grief stamped across her face in that single second. Then she turns away, so sharply that her skirt billows outwards. Her hand rises to her mouth; her shoulders shake. 

“Why are you here?” she asks at last, voice rough.

“I thought you would appreciate hearing it from me,” answers Morse gently. And then, after a moment, “And, we have some questions.”

Her head drops and she sighs. “Questions. Now?” she sounds tired, disconnected from the present.

“It’s easiest to get it over with.”

She swivels around, eyes flashing. They’re filled with tears, her face lightly flushed. She looks beautiful in her grief, and in that moment Lewis truly knows that she’s not human. Grief is harsh and ugly, not this soft perfection. 

“That’s easy for you to say, chief inspector.”

“It’s what I found,” he answers, in the same gentle tone as before. 

For a moment they stand there, the two songbirds staring at one another, one wreathed in sorrow that brings a fragility and with it loveliness, the other softened by sympathy but with no apparent allure. Lewis has the sense that there’s more to the conversation than he’s picking up on, but whatever it is the two songbirds are clearly speaking the same language. 

Finally Annalisa nods, hands still caught tightly on the opposite arm. “Fine. Ask.”

“When did you last see Sir Thomas?”

“Yesterday evening. We were there working late.”

Morse’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I was under the impression he didn’t directly conduct the research.”

“He worked directly with the songbirds – he rarely allowed the others that… shall we say, privilege. But the rest of the work – making sense of the information he gathered from us – that was all done by the others. He didn’t use the lab. He just saw to its funding.”

“Did you agree with him? With the purpose of his research?”

Annalisa sighs. “I volunteered, didn’t I?” she says, quietly. Her eyes fall away, examining the pattern in the blue-grey rug beneath the sofas. 

Morse leaves it at that. “Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would wish him harm?”

Annalisa releases her arm to run a hand down the length of her braid; it falls over her shoulder and down between her breasts. Lewis finds himself watching as she stroked it, paying more attention to the motion than her words. “Several. But enough to kill him? Veronica I suppose; it wouldn’t surprise me if she wanted us both dead. Otherwise, perhaps Guillaume LeBlanc; they had always butted heads, but the animosity had ramped up of late.” 

“Do you know where we can find Dr LeBlanc?”

“He has a small laboratory out of Magdalen; you should be able to track him down through them. We didn’t associate; Thomas wouldn’t have liked it.”

Morse nods, shifting his weight slowly and sliding his hands into his pockets. “Alright. Thank you. That’s all for now – we’ll be in touch.”

He turns to go, nudging Lewis, who takes a moment to take the hint. They’re stopped in the doorway by Annalisa’s voice.

“Morse?”

They turn back. She’s standing framed in the window, sunlight streaming around her thin form; she shines bright as a solitary flame, eyes filled with sorrow. “How did he die?”

For an instant, Lewis sees an answering flame in his inspector, a sudden flash of brightness like the sun peeking through a bank of clouds. Morse’s crown of hair shines a snowy white, his blue eyes the clear colour of an endless prairie sky. “When we know, I’ll tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please also check out this [untitled work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13820700) by [coldlikedeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldlikedeath/pseuds/coldlikedeath), a take-off on the Inspector Morse songbird verse!


	3. Bitter Rivals

“You were very quiet back there,” says Morse as they get into the Jag. Out in the fresh air, Lewis feels the fog of attraction and hunger for something unattainable fade away. His head clears, leaving him feeling raw and chagrined. 

“Didn’t want to put my foot in it, sir,” answers Lewis honestly.

Morse gives him a blue-eyed glance. “Admirable.” He starts the car, pulling out onto the street and swearing briefly at a cyclist who passes by, oblivious. 

“I just wasn’t expecting her to be so… so…” words fail him. 

“She’s more than so-so,” replies Morse lightly. 

“She’s nothing like you.” He had been prepared for a second Morse; someone rendered quiet and brooding by years of cruelty and bigotry. Instead he’d found something pure and untouched, with a quality of innocence that defied expectations and a beauty beyond measure. 

Morse snorts softly. “We’re more alike than you think – and there’s more to both of us than meets the eye. You’d do well to remember that, Lewis.”

Lewis gives him a quizzical look; Morse grins at his perturbation.

  
***

They return to the station. Morse disappears to hole up in the office and doubtless turn on the radio again; Lewis takes himself down to the college directories and hunts out the one for Magdalen. When he turns it up he returns with it to the office where, as predicted, Morse is listening to something loud and incomprehensible performed by a soprano with a swelling orchestra behind her.

“I have to make some calls, sir,” says Lewis hopefully, totting the college directory. 

Morse looks up, frowning. “Can’t you do it somewhere else? There’re empty desks all over the place.”

“You know the Chief Super frowns on that, sir,” replies Lewis. Morse gives him a displeased look but turns down the volume. 

It takes several calls to find someone who can advise him of Dr LeBlanc’s lab, and another two to confirm that the doctor is in fact in today. “He’ll be free at three,” says the woman Lewis finally reaches, who appears to have a clue as to LeBlanc’s location and schedule. 

“Right; we’ll see him then.”

  
***

The building they arrive at was thrown up in a back end of Cowley decades ago and not updated since, at least on the outside. Its exterior is sagging brick, the ground floor windows barred. The doorway is surrounded by rust, hinges bleeding it into the concrete doorframe.

Inside there’s none of the bright airy foyer space of the Sherrington building, nor any seat for a security guard; it’s dark and dank, with no windows in the narrow corridor that leads to a central stairway. The floor is chipped linoleum, the walls a faded institutional blue. 

There’s a young woman standing off to one side of the room wearing a lab coat and reading through a sheaf of papers; she looks up at their entrance and steps forward. “Are you Sergeant Lewis?”

“That’s right,” says Lewis. “This is Chief Inspector Morse.”

She slides the papers under her arm and nods, eyes curious. “I’m Stephanie Conner, one of Dr LeBlanc’s assistants. I’ll take you up to him.”

They climb the central staircase, the brass railing polished smooth and shiny by use. “Dr LeBlanc’s funding comes from the college, does it?” asks Lewis, as they climb to the second floor. 

“He is a member of faculty; that gives him access to this space. Most of his research is funded through outside grants.”

“Do they pay well?” asks Morse.

Stephanie turns to look over her shoulder, face clouded. “You’ve been to Sir Thomas’ lab?” she asks; they nod. “Then you can see ours; I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.”

The room she takes them to is approximately half the size of Sir Thomas’ long, well-lit space. Its windows are small and their glass dirty, its two work benches are so close together that it would be difficult to squeeze between them. One low refrigerator hums in the corner beside a counter full of glassware; on the opposite side of the room a few pieces of larger equipment have been crammed awkwardly into a corner. 

There is only one man in the lab, a thin, bookish man of about 60 with a hook nose and a scraggly moustache. He’s typing at an electronic word processor – a dinosaur compared to the new computers in Sir Thomas’ lab – but looks up when they arrive. He has wire-framed spectacles that he pushes up to sit at the bridge of his nose, peering through them at the two detectives. “The police, I assume,” he says, standing and coming over to shake hands. There’s only the faintest trace of a French accent to his speech.

“Chief Inspector Morse and DS Lewis,” introduces Morse. 

“What is this about, if I may ask?”

“It’s about Sir Thomas Winchester, doctor. He was found dead earlier today,” says Morse, shortly. He’s watching LeBlanc intently, as is Lewis; the splash of shock across the scientist’s face is evident. There’s a moment of silence in the lab.

“How did he die?” asks the doctor eventually.

“Not naturally,” replies Morse.

LeBlanc nods. “I understand why you’re here now. I would take you to my office, but I’m afraid there isn’t room enough to swing a cat there. We’re better off in the laboratory. Stephanie, if you could give us a few minutes?”

The young woman nods and steps out, the sound of her footsteps disappearing down the hallway. 

“What exactly is it you do here, doctor?” asks Morse, glancing around at the jumble of scientific equipment and crowded workspace. Lewis pulls out his notebook. 

“We seek to learn – Chief Inspector, was it?” LeBlanc gives him a curious look, intrigue clear in his voice. 

Morse nods, and LeBlanc continues. “We seek to learn more about people like yourself, to provide mutual benefit to humans and songbirds alike.”

At the words _people like you_ Morse stills; Lewis catches sight of it in his peripheral vision, his own throat tightening slightly. Whatever identified Morse to the scientist is unclear to Lewis; he’s rarely seen hints of Morse’s nature creep through his iron-fisted control. 

“Specifically?” asks Morse, not commenting on the allusion to his nature.

“I will take an example I know Winchester to be working on, as it is him you come asking about. Songbirds can induce unconsciousness by means of a kiss – it is actually a complex chemical interaction driven by hormones unique to songbird physiology and transmitted through saliva. If we could replicate this to create a drug it could perhaps be used as a substitute for morphine – potentially without the drawbacks of an opiate.”

Morse raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like a breakthrough.”

LeBlanc slips his hands into his pockets. Although he speaks calmly, his frame is stiff. Lewis can see his jaw working. “Potentially. There would have to be a way to synthesize it. That is what Winchester has secured his latest funding for.”

“Beating out your bid in the process,” comments Morse. 

“Yes,” admits LeBlanc sourly after a moment, nodding. He does not expand. 

“The two of you argued about it.”

LeBlanc shrugs stiffly. “There was little we did not argue about. Life was handed to Winchester on a silver plate, but that didn’t stop him sweeping up every crumb of funding or publicity he possibly could. I was evacuated to this island during the siege of Dunkirk; I stayed here with the Free French and met my wife; when the war was over I returned and worked to earn the scholarships that put me through university and enabled me to become a researcher. My work has always been my passion – and my struggle. For Winchester, it was a hobby – and a way to get his name in the paper. He was a braggart, and a bully.”

“No love lost,” sums up Morse. 

“If you care to put it that way, no. But I did not kill him.”

“Where were you between ten and twelve this morning?”

LeBlanc considers, head canted to one side. “I was meeting a colleague,” he says, after a moment. “In College – I teach two classes a week for Magdalen. I was proposing to hand one of them over to him next semester.”

“His name?” asks Lewis, pen at the ready.

“Dr Franklin Levitt. If there’s nothing else…?” He looks from Morse to Lewis questioningly. 

Morse shakes his head. “No, that will do for now. We’ll let you know if we have further questions.”

“Anything I can do to help. Winchester was no friend of mine, but I don’t condone murder.”

Morse smiles grimly. “Glad to hear it, sir.”

  
***

“How did he know about you?” asks Lewis once they’re outside the grim, mouldering lab building.

Morse doesn’t seem fussed; he shrugs lightly. “I imagine in his line of work he’s met a fair number of songbirds.”

“Sir Thomas’ staff didn’t recognize you,” points out the sergeant, as they walk to the car.

“You heard for yourself that they’re working on a chemical level, and that Sir Thomas did all the work with the actual volunteers. Make a note of that,” he says suddenly, stopping. “We should get onto the lot of them at the Sherrington and find out who else volunteered for Sir Thomas.”

“Yes, sir.” Lewis waits for Morse to unlock the Jag, then gets in. “Do you think they can really do it? Make new drugs from songbirds?”

Morse’s mouth is drawn in a thin line. “Scientists rush in where angels fear to tred. Whatever they discover, the consequences could be far reaching. They may already have killed one man.”

“Sir Thomas’ death was more likely due to his personality than some professional sabotage, surely,” replies Lewis.

Morse shakes his head slowly, eyes looking out the windscreen into the distance. “It’s too early to say that for certain. Prestige and money are a fine motive in and of themselves. A new breakthrough drug could be worth millions of pounds. And that’s more than enough to kill for.”

  
***

Back at the nick, Lewis gets onto Sir Thomas’ research team about digging out the name of their songbird volunteers; Dr Clarkson promises to get the names to him as soon as forensics allows her into Sir Thomas’ office – likely first thing the next day.

By the time he’s finished Morse has already pushed off home; Lewis follows his lead.

At home in the den Val is watching some American re-run on the telly while chops sizzle in the oven. Patrick is with her; upstairs he can hear Lyn listening to her cassettes. 

Val looks up as he comes in to receive her kiss; Patrick ignores him, fully immersed in the telly. Lewis musses his hair briefly before his son squirms away. 

He rounds the sofa to sink down beside Val, leaning his head back against the cushion and closing his eyes. 

“Tough day?” she asks, sympathetically. 

“Strange one. Some famous scientific bigwig was found dead. He had been a keeper; his work was to do with songbirds.”

“Your guv’nor must have had something to say about that.”

“Morse keeps his thoughts to himself when it comes to his nature, but he’s got a bee in his bonnet about the case alright. Maybe he’s just upset about the implications of the research – maybe something more. Catch him telling me.” He snorts. Then, more softly, adds: “We interviewed the dead man’s former songbird. Or rather, Morse did.” His eyes slip open and he turns to see Val watching him.

“You’ve spent enough time around one not to be tongue-tied by now, surely,” says Val, smiling. He shakes his head.

“Morse… he keeps it all in check, tight as tight can be. The only hint is in his eyes, sometimes – save that one time he gave me a peek. But her… It’s nothing like seeing one on the telly, or in the cinema. I always reckoned all the obsession with them was… well, overblown, inflated like. It’s not. She had it all – beauty, grace, allure.”

“You’ll make me jealous,” jokes Val.

“I was expecting her to seem otherworldly, something strange and other. And now, in my memory, she does seem that way. Incredible, impossible. But at the time she was truly real. I didn’t tell Morse, but I found it frightening. The power she has. The lengths I can imagine people would go to to possess her – _have_ gone to to keep songbirds, in the past.”

Val puts her hand on his arm, her presence warm and comforting. “Their freedom buys them protection from that. A new start,” she says.

Lewis remembers Annalisa Wray’s green eyes, the way she looked away when she spoke of her relationship with Sir Thomas. “I’m not sure how easy it is for them to forget the past,” he replies, and realizes he’s worried. Not just about Annalisa Wray and how she fits into this, but Morse and his own obscure past – and the overlap between the two songbirds. 

Val rises, giving him a soft smile. “You’re home now. You don’t have to think about it anymore. Let me get you a drink.”

Lewis nods his thanks and turns his attention to the telly, where Zorro is just riding off into the sunset. He lays his head back again, and tries not to think.


	4. An Imperfect Freedom

The next day Dr Clarkson phones through the list of songbirds working with Sir Thomas. It’s a short list: only three names, one of which is Annalisa Wray. 

“It’s not easy to recruit volunteers,” says the doctor, having read him the list. “As far as I was aware, Sir Thomas worked primarily with Miss Wray; there was a bond of trust there that facilitated the research.”

“I see,” says Lewis, making a note. 

“Was there anything else?” asks Dr Clarkson, sounding impatient. 

“Not at the moment. Thanks for the list.”

She hangs up without further comment.

  
***

Max rings them later in the day to report that the initial autopsy results are in.

“What’s the verdict?” asks Lewis, looking to Morse who glances up, face a mask of disinterest. He’s in the middle of some paperwork, pen scraping lazily across the page. 

“I think this warrants a trip to the Radcliffe,” replies the pathologist with a measure of coyness. “Besides, it’ll do Morse good to get out of the office.”

Lewis doubts the chief inspector will see it that way, but makes a cautious noise of assent and hangs up. “That was Max,” he reports. “He wants us to come down to see him.”

“Hell,” says Morse, vehemently. “I’m too old to play the part of diligent supplicant.”

“Perhaps he’s found something important, sir,” says Lewis, getting to his feet and thereby chivvying Morse up. 

Morse rises, looking peeved. “What? Death by ingrown toenail? Fatality caused by some rare South American poisonous frog, perhaps?”

Lewis gives him a longsuffering look. “Sir…” 

Morse sighs, then casts off his ill-humour like a cloak. “Alright, Lewis, no need to get that hangdog look. I suppose we must all march cheerfully to the beat of the pathologist’s drum.”

  
***

Sunlight is streaming through the pathology lab’s windows, the short, wide panes of glass set high in the wall near the ceiling and looking out over the hospital car park. The laboratory was modernized some years ago, transforming it from the one-roomed tiled cell Lewis was used to in Newcastle to a large open space with several tables. It also serves as a laboratory, the room outfitted with computers, high-powered microscopes and fume hoods. It’s not, it occurs to Lewis, so different to Sir Thomas’ lab.

Standing at one end of the room by a draped corpse is Max, reading a multi-paged report. He looks up at Morse and Lewis’ entrance. 

“Ah, gentlemen. So good of you to join us.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was a choice,” replies Morse. DeBryn gives him a reprimanding look over the top of his glasses. 

“It’s never too late in life to take an interest in something new, Morse,” says DeBryn dryly, putting down his paper on the desk behind him.

“It is for him.” Morse indicates the sheeted corpse. “Have you found the cause of death?”

“Heart failure,” answers DeBryn promptly. Morse’s mouth tightens into a long, thin line. 

“You called us down here for a heart failure?”

“Ultimately, what killed him was his heart stopping,” says DeBryn, going on despite Morse’s scathing tone. “What it was that caused _that_ , however… that’s the question.”

“A statement which defines your profession.” Morse continues to look unimpressed.

“The problem with you, Morse, is that you’ve a soul devoid of romance.” DeBryn steps over to the corpse on the table and pulls back the sheet, revealing Sir Thomas’ heavy features. “Sir Thomas had minor cirrhosis of the liver, and some lung damage indicating a long history as a smoker. Otherwise he was in peak condition. There was no organ damage caused by whatever drug or chemical ended his life, no sign or symptom. His heart simply stopped.”

“Meaning you don’t know what killed him,” summarizes Morse. 

“I’m running blood tests, but frankly there are very few drugs which cause the heart to stop which don’t otherwise leave any trace behind. Pure adrenaline perhaps, but I would expect to see damage to the heart were that the case. “

“If it was adrenaline, that would show up in the blood tests, wouldn’t it?” asks Lewis. 

“Certainly. But I have a feeling –” 

“A rare thing in a pathologist,” cuts in Morse; DeBryn gives him an unamused glance.

“I have a feeling,” continues DeBryn, “that whatever it was that killed Sir Thomas, it was something much more rarified. It will take another day to tell you for certain.”

“You’ll call us when the results come in, won’t you sir?” asks Lewis, heading off whatever retort Morse has.

“Of course. I look forward to clearing up this mystery.”

He reaches out and pulls the sheet back down.

  
***

They head out to the pub, Jag running briefly along the river; the muddy brown waters are rippling in the light breeze, a pair of swans cutting a pristine line from shore to shore.

“What now, sir?” asks Lewis. 

“First of all, a drink.” Morse doesn’t seem in a talkative mood; they listen to a cassette as he navigates the narrow streets, finally finding a parking space near the Swan and Cygnet. 

The pub is all dark wood and brass furnishings, little light filtering in through dusty windows. It’s lunchtime and the room is full and smoky, the dull roar of conversation striking Lewis as he opens the door. They find a spot in a tight corner at the bar underneath a pair of football pennants, Morse motioning for two pints. 

The drinks come and Morse drains nearly half his glass at once, while Lewis sips at his. He doesn’t have the chief inspector’s palate when it comes to beer, nor his ever-present thirst. Lewis wonders sometimes whether it serves as a replacement for the intimacy that’s missing from his life. Morse sustains himself in brief, anonymous visits to the Friendship Centre; Lewis can’t imagine it’s easy or satisfying. 

He finds himself wondering once again about the parallels between Annalisa and Morse, the similarities the chief inspector had claimed they shared despite appearances to the contrary. “Can you tell me more about Miss Wray? How do you know her?” he asks, hesitant to probe too deep at first blush. 

Morse rotates his glass along its circular bottom, drawing a wet circle on his coaster. The amber liquid inside washes up against the glass. “Oxford is a small place. One way or another I imagine I know all the songbirds in town, except perhaps the occasional student. Annalisa was a long-time resident, and we both have university connections. I didn’t think much of Sir Thomas; I don’t think she thought much of my own humble lifestyle.” 

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Songbirds were born and bred into what could be termed servitude, and we were taught to admire and depend on it. Our keepers were more than masters – they were saviors.” Morse takes a deep drink. “It’s all claptrap, of course. It was nothing but servitude, and we nothing but slaves. But there are those who have been slow to see it that way. And freedom brings with it its own burdens and uncertainties; for some it can be easier to fight for liberty than to live with the consequences of it every day – for those who never fought in the first place, victory might feel like defeat.”

Lewis thinks of the Friendship Centres he’s known, of their patchy walls covered in tattered posters and their scruffy chairs filled with a mixture of curious gawkers, self-important do-gooders and those desperate for a new experience. And of course the hungry-eyed songbirds, kept in a segregated waiting space before admission into the falsely cheerful rooms kept for them, occupied with mouldering couches and black-and-white tellies. It’s certainly an imperfect freedom. 

“But not for you,” says Lewis.

“No,” agrees Morse. “Not for me.” He finishes his pint. “Another?”

“I think we should be getting back, sir.” Lewis hasn’t finished off even half his pint yet; he takes a hasty drink. 

“Weren’t you just looking for direction?” grouses Morse. 

“I can interview the other songbirds Dr Clarkson identified as working with Sir Thomas,” says Lewis. 

“Feel up to that, do you?” Morse gives him a dry look. “No; best leave it to me. Besides, I’ve something better for you to get on with. It sounds from Max that we may be looking for some kind of unknown compound as the cause of death. I imagine laboratories dedicated to synthesizing new compounds would be a prime location to find something of that ilk. Take a couple of PCs and assign them to getting both Sir Thomas and Dr LeBlanc’s labs inventoried. I want to know if they’re missing anything.”

“You think someone murdered him with his own research?” asks Lewis.

“Stranger things have happened,” replies Morse.

  
***

Neither group of scientists is pleased with the order to run an inventory on their collections of samples and dangerous drugs. But with a PC loitering nearby to ensure proper procedure is followed, both set their students to get a start on it.

Lewis returns to the station to find the office empty, Morse presumably out interviewing the other two songbirds. He sits down to get some work done in the silence of his superior’s absence, eating his packed lunch over the papers. 

It’s more than an hour later that Morse returns, blowing into the office like a cold wind. He shrugs out of his jacket, then sinks heavily into his chair and leans back with a sigh. 

“How’d it go, sir?” asks Lewis, sitting up. Morse opens his eyes.

“Not very well. Neither of them had seen Sir Thomas in the past week. Both had alibis for the time of death – you can confirm those. Besides, there’s no motive.”

Lewis hums. “Something one of Sir Thomas’ students said has been bothering me, sir. You know, the meek one – Austin. Remember, he said he had concerns about Sir Thomas’ research, but then he clammed up when we pressed him.”

“You think there’s more to it,” surmises Morse. 

“Could be, couldn’t it?”

“Alright. Look into it. Better yet, get him down here. Nothing like a whiff of the station to start ‘em talking.”

  
***

Lewis interviews Neville Austin in one of the interview rooms, himself sitting across the table from Austin while Morse stands behind, leaning up against the wall.

“I don’t know why you had to bring me down here,” complains Austin, looking around at the drab room. “I’ve been very cooperative.”

“You haven’t answered all our questions though, have you?” says Lewis. Austin looks nervous, eyes wide and jumping between Morse and Lewis, as though uncertain which is the true threat. “We wanted to talk to you about Sir Thomas’ research. And the problems you had with it.”

“I’ve told you, that had nothing to do with his death. I never even talked to him about my concerns.”

“Doesn’t mean they mightn’t have been valid. Just what were they, these concerns?” He leans forwards, holding Austin’s gaze. 

The young man swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing above his tie. “They had to do with his … look, I don’t know about this. He’s dead, after all. What does it matter?”

“It matters,” interrupts Morse from behind, voice rough and steely, “because a man was murdered. That means all sorts of unpleasant things, the least of which are some informal questions. If you would prefer for this to become more official – and more unpleasant – that path is open to you.”

Austin shrinks in his chair. “It just seems inconsequential,” he mutters.

“Why don’t you let us be the judge of that,” says Lewis. 

Austin fidgets, shifting his weight a couple of times before beginning to speak. “It has to do with Sir Thomas’ conduct with the songbirds. Really, with Miss Wray – he hardly saw the others who had volunteered. He happened to leave his notebook in the lab and it fell open when I picked it up to return him and I… I read some of it. He was under the belief that the hormones produced by songbirds to render aggressors unconscious become more potent when they’re under duress. He had decided to test this theory. But I don’t know that he ever did. The page I saw was marked from nearly a month back,” Austin hastens to explain.

“What kind of duress?” asks Lewis. Behind him, Morse is silent. 

Austin opens his mouth, then closes it again. When he speaks, it’s in a quiet voice. “He suggested the threat of sexual violence.”

“And you didn’t think this worth reporting,” says Lewis incredulously. 

“Like I said, I didn’t know whether he’d actually tried it.” Austin doesn’t meet his eye, staring determinedly at the table.

“Have you collected samples over the past month?” asks Morse, looming up over Lewis’ shoulder. Austin raises his head.

“Yes.”

“And have you noticed any difference in them?” prompts the chief inspector with deliberateness. 

Austin licks his lips. “The past few weeks, the concentration of hormone in the samples has been higher,” he admits at last. “But we really don’t know enough about the physiology yet to –”

“You knew enough to draw your own conclusions when you read Sir Thomas’ notes,” breaks in Morse. 

“I was going to confront him about them. I _was_. But then… he was already dead.” The student shudders, crossing his arms tightly across his chest and looking at the wall to his left, eyes unseeing. 

There’s a moment of silence. Lewis breaks it eventually: “We’ll need to get a signed statement from you.”

Austin seems about to protest, head snapping around, but whatever he sees over Lewis’ shoulder, it’s enough to stop him in his tracks. Lewis looks up in time to catch a glimpse of Morse as he saw him one afternoon in a pub after an arson case – breathtakingly intense, eyebrows raised high with hawk-eyed hauteur, his presence like a burning flame in an otherwise dull room. 

On the other side of the table, Austin drops his head into his hands.


	5. Goodnight

Lewis takes an official statement from the now-resigned Austin and gets his signature on it before releasing the student. Morse has by this time disappeared – Lewis finds him in their office getting ready to leave again.

“Going to talk to Miss Wray?” asks Lewis, putting down the statement on his desk. 

“That’s right.” The chief inspector picks up his jacket and shrugs it on slowly, face clouded. 

“Do you think he went through with it? What he put in his notes?” asks Lewis, gathering up his own jacket. Before Morse can answer, the phone rings.

Lewis picks it up, leaning his hip up against his desk and balancing the receiver against his shoulder. “Hello?”

“Sarge? It’s Anderson, over at the Winchester lab. They haven’t finished the inventory yet, but I thought you’d want to know that they’ve come up with something. Some experimental serum’s missing; something to do with songbirds.”

“Can you put Dr Clarkson on?” asks Lewis. 

There’s a moment of muttered voices from the other end of the line, then the doctor comes on, her voice brusque. “Sergeant Lewis?”

“Yes, doctor. I understand you’ve noticed some missing samples?”

“Two vials of serum extracted from samples given by our volunteers.”

Lewis pulls the cap off his pen and opens his notepad. “Samples of what, doctor?”

There’s a pause, a sense of unwillingness. Then the doctor answers, stiffly, “The songbird hormone responsible for causing unconsciousness.”

Lewis looks to Morse, who’s watching him with a stony face. “The goodnight kiss?”

“Yes.” The word sounds bitten out, harsh and discordant. 

“Could it kill?” He’s not aware of anyone ever accusing songbirds of murdering through intimacy, but he has no idea what the scientific process has done to the samples collected from the volunteers. 

“No one has ever delivered a dose as concentrated as these,” replies Clarkson.

“In your opinion, could it kill, doctor?” repeats Lewis. 

“Yes,” answers the doctor after a moment. “One vial would likely cause death with extreme rapidity.”

“Who knows that? Other than yourself?”

“It’s not something that’s ever been discussed, Sergeant. My fellows here in the laboratory would be aware. Sir Thomas.”

“Lady Veronica?”

“I couldn’t say. Her relationship with Sir Thomas did not seem to be one of shared interests, but perhaps she was more involved in his work than I’m aware.”

“Guillaume LeBlanc?”

“Yes,” she answers, firmly.

“Miss Wray?”

“…Quite possibly,” comes the more reluctant answer. 

“We’ll have to ask you to come in later to make a statement, doctor.”

She answers stiffly: “I am prepared to do so.”

“Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

Lewis hangs up and looks to Morse. “They’ve lost some of the songbird serum – a concentrated dose of the goodnight kiss. Two vials are gone; one would be fatal. Sounds like everyone was aware of the fact, except possibly Lady Veronica.”

“You saw the lab; someone would need key card access to get at the vial. That narrows it down to Sir Thomas’ lot, and possibly Annalisa, if she had access.”

“Should I phone back and ask?” asks Lewis, putting his hand back on the receiver. Morse shakes his head.

“We have to pay her a visit anyway; might as well ask then.”

  
***

No amount of training or experience makes interviews with abuse victims easy. Lewis can feel nervousness roiling in his gut, a viscous, sweaty feeling that puts him off his balance. Morse’s face is an expressionless mask, even the brilliant blue of his eyes dimmed as he pulls the car up to the pavement and turns off the engine.

“Perhaps nothing happened,” suggests Lewis half-heartedly. “Perhaps he never tested his theory.”

Morse turns to look at him. “Do you believe that?”

Lewis can’t honestly answer that he does, knows the doubt shows on his face. Morse nods once, and steps out of the car. 

They walk up the steps to the front porch in silence while the hot sun beats down from above, searing their shadows into the cement. Inside, Lewis imagines the front hall is painted in bright, cheerful colours as the light streams through the stained-glass window set in the door. 

The beauty and peacefulness of their surroundings jar horribly with their mission here. 

Morse pushes the buzzer and they hear the harsh sound reverberate through the house. 

There’s no answer. 

“Gone out, d’you reckon?” asks Lewis. Morse taps his foot, leaning over to peer in the front windows. He stiffens, stepping over sharply to take a closer look. 

“Lewis!”

Lewis peers over Morse’s shoulder and through the window sees the back of a sofa. And, just visible on the rug in front of it, a woman’s limp hand. 

Lewis turns and throws his weight against the front door; the thick wood is solid and doesn’t budget. Beside him Morse leans down to move first one flower pot, then the second. He straightens with a key in hand and unlocks the door; the two of them rush into the house. 

The front room is a comfortable den, less formal than the pristine sitting room at the back of the house, with a television and a lumpy sofa and shag rug. 

Lying on her side on the rug is Annalisa Wray. Beside her is an empty vial and a syringe.

Lewis sees at once that she’s breathing, her shoulders rising and falling with deep, strained breaths. He looks around for a phone and finds one on a table beside the hi-fi set. While he picks it up he sees Morse kneel beside Annalisa, brushing her hair away from her face and lifting her head. 

“Annalisa? Annalisa?”

Her eyelids flicker, then open, the green of her irises just a tiny ring about her dilated pupils. 

“What did you take?” he asks her, reaching out for the vial and turning it to read the label. His face darkens; he looks across at Lewis and raises a finger to run across his lips. _Goodnight_ , thinks Lewis.

“I loved him,” she whispers, looking up at Morse. “So much.” Her eyes flutter closed. “So much.”

“I know,” says Morse.

She shakes her head weakly, her speech slurred and fragmented. “You don’t. Don’t know what love is. He was everything. And I killed him.” She starts shaking; Morse pulls her closer. 

“Annalisa? Hold on – help’s on the way.” He looks to Lewis, who’s giving the address to Dispatch. 

“What he did to me… what he did… I still loved him. Still.” A tear slips down her cheek; her eyes flutter closed. 

Morse looks up at Lewis, done issuing orders on the phone and now waiting awkwardly to one side. “Call through to Dr Clarkson and have someone from their team meet us at the hospital.”

Lewis picks up the phone again.

On the floor Morse sits stilly, holding the unconscious songbird, while the sunlight beating in from the front windows merges their shadows together.

  
***

“Likely non-fatal,” is the medical opinion, produced two hours after Annalisa’s admission to the Radcliffe. The doctor, a younger woman with thick glasses and her hair captured in a tight bun, continues, “The effect of the compound on songbirds is profoundly different than on humans – increased heartrate, perspiration, chills – and of course much less intense. She will require close monitoring, but I expect her to pull through.”

Lewis and Morse receive the news sitting in the waiting room, along with Drs Little and Clarkson. Annalisa has been assigned a bed in an otherwise empty two-person room, as per standing hospital songbird protocol. 

“We’ll have to leave a WPC here,” says Morse. When the doctor looks perturbed, he adds, “She can wait in the hall.”

“Very well, so long as she doesn’t disrupt routine.” The doctor nods and departs, heels clicking on the linoleum floor. 

Lewis turns to Dr Clarkson. “I’d better get that statement, doctor.”

They leave.

  
***

By the time he finishes getting the statement from Clarkson, it’s late. The sun will be up for hours yet, but most of the day shift has pushed off home, the night shift now at their desks. The station is quieter now than in the day; on a weekday evening there won’t be much passing through Thames Valley Station.

To his surprise, when he returns to the office it’s to find the lights off but Morse still there, tilted back in his chair with his feet on the desk, staring at the ceiling. The radio’s off for once, the small room silent. He looks like a statue cast in hues of grey, cold and solitary. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be in, sir,” says Lewis, putting Clarkson’s statement down with Austin’s for filing. 

“I suppose I wasn’t done thinking,” replies Morse, looking over slowly at his sergeant.

“Don’t know when you’ve ever been, sir.”

Morse sits up, taking a deep breath. “Time for a pint?”

He doesn’t have the time, really; Val will be expecting him home, Lyn needing help with her homework and Patrick needing reading to. But there’s something off about Morse this evening, something that speaks of loneliness. He’s not used to seeing weakness in his boss. 

“Alright,” agrees Lewis.

  
***

They go to a quiet place along the river with tables set outside; the grass is green underfoot, the ducks quacking happily as a pair of students feed them crumbs at the water’s edge.

Lewis fetches the pints and brings them out to Morse’s chosen spot on the outermost of the tables. He doesn’t look up when Lewis sets the pints down, nor yet when the sergeant seats himself. Doesn’t reach for the beer. 

“It gets inside your head,” he says at last, finally reaching for his pint but not raising it to his lips. “All this captivity business – keepers, feeding, _need_. You think it doesn’t. But of course it does.” He shrugs, and takes a drink.

“I think there was more to it than captivity for Miss Wray.”

“Certainly; few songbirds truly loved their keepers, and fewer still killed them. I did neither,” he states contemplatively, looking out at the water. 

“But you never had a keeper – not a true one,” replies Lewis. 

Morse turns, blue eyes shining in the evening sun. “I never said that.”

Lewis sputters. “But – you said DI McNutt, and Thursday before him…”

Morse nods slowly, ruminating. When he speaks it’s in a low, gritty tone, as though the words are difficult to dredge up. “And before that there was Guy Fleming; he was a don at Lonsdale. And my keeper. It was his death that introduced me to police work, and DI Thursday.” 

The idea of Morse as a kept thing – as someone’s possession – is boggling. Lewis has never thought of the chief inspector as anything other than a free agent, one of the freest he’s ever known. He has thousands of questions, but doubts Morse is onside with answering any of them. He’s only ever disclosed personal information at his own pace, never that of others. 

“So that’s what you meant when you said the two of you were more alike than I thought – you’d both lost your keepers,” Lewis replies, sticking diplomatically to the case. 

“I was speaking in the general rather than the specific, but yes, it’s true. When Guy died, I became desperate to find a way out of captivity, a way to avoid going back on the auction block. It was Thursday that found that way, keeping me on the station books as evidence. That’s how it stayed, until the law changed.” 

If anyone could find a way out of captivity, thinks Lewis, it would be Morse. 

“But Annalisa – Miss Wray – she never wanted that,” he says. 

Morse takes a long, silent drink. “No,” he says at last. “She didn’t. She had love, even if it was unrequited. She deserved better.”

They sit in silence for a minute, watching the river flow past. 

Eventually Lewis finishes his pint, putting the glass down heavily on the table. “D’you suppose Dr Clarkson’s lot will be able to recover after this?”

“I doubt it, but if they don’t succeed someone else will.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

Morse looks up. “There’s a place for progress, Lewis. But in this case, I would have no part in it. The cost has been too high already.” 

“You don’t think songbirds can help us? Help humans?”

Morse finishes his drink and sets it down. After a moment he answers, voice heavy. “I think we have a long way to go on helping ourselves first.”

END


End file.
